private MY IRON LUNG \ granitepelt

[NETTLEPAW ♡]

The glaring gaze of his superiors, be it warriors or lead warriors or whatever else, didn't often shake Nettlepaw's general attitude of nonchalance. Success had found its way to him easily- he was a good hunter, fairly average at sparring. There wasn't any need to make a big deal out of any of it. He was fine, and that was all it mattered- and now, the training, the refinement of the foundations, was dull. Every hunting patrol felt the same, in the same dingy territory that the other Clan cats had wrinkled their nose up at during their stay.

On the hunt with his father, he therefore acted no different. He stalked averagely, dropped into the easy, average hunting crouch that came naturally to him, and pounced at an ill-hidden frog. He must've misjudged the distance, though- something like that, because his paws never made purchase on the slimy thing's skin. No, they fell short- an inch or two, enough to give the frog enough time to hop away.

A sheepish smile made its way onto his maw. Whatever, really- there'd be another frog. This place was teeming with them. Blue eyes looked back to his father, and he shrugged. "Not StarClan destined, that one," he joked. There wasn't anything else to be done, now.

\ @GRANITEPELT ! ​

penned by pin ♡​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Granitepelt had asked Nightswarm’s permission to take his middle kit hunting for the evening. Shadows lengthen and thicken between them, the sky losing its blue and set aflame from the setting sun. The marsh begins to sing around them—crickets, frogs. One of the creatures in question evades his son’s clumsy paws, disappearing into a thicket of swampgrass. Nettlepaw’s failure does not seem to faze him, though—he turns guileless blue eyes toward his father, his mouth twitching into a half-apologetic smile. “Not StarClan destined, that one,” he says in a bright voice.

Granitepelt’s mouth twitches into a stern frown. He watches the grass cease its quivering before whirling on his son. “Is this how Nightswarm coddles your failures? Letting you shrug your shoulders and joke them away?” He meets the warmth of his offspring’s gaze with cold, shrewd green eyes. “What did you do wrong? Tell me. You could have had that frog if you were quicker.” Frustration prickles his paws. Were all his kits destined for failure?

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